


Rule 52

by Questions3



Series: Nightshade [8]
Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Actual Thief Bilbo, Dwarf Culture & Customs, Female Bilbo, Gen, Young Bilbo Baggins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:23:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Questions3/pseuds/Questions3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Never Take Directions From A Dwarf</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rule 52

**Author's Note:**

> A [Grootslang](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Grootslang) is a large elephant snake creature of lore and legend. It likes diamonds and is a South African myth. Kinda terrifying but I don't see it bothering with dwarrow if it is left alone. Just Oliphaunts are in any danger, really.

            The dark was nothing new or intimidating to the Children of Aulë. They grew in the bowels of rock and were nurtured in the stony arms of the immobile elements that comprised it. As such most dwarrow did swimmingly in little to no light, having developed a heightened visual acuity in the shadows that made up their homes. In fact, more often than not, when placed outside their mountains the race was affected with an assortment of disabling afflictions. Most would suffer from blindness, or a loss of sight, the sun harming after so much time spent in soft luminescence or, at most, forge light. Larger cities proved a trial as they were used to a din comprised of banging and shouting, as such they were labeled deaf in communities of Men. The dwarrow languages of Inglishmêk and Khuzdul were equipped to work around the ailment, Inglishmêk being a language of hand signals that required no talking and Khuzdul being a resonating language that could be felt in the bones as much as it was heard _under_ piercing noises in the dark. Westron was neither a language of sight or one that could be felt, thus it was often harder to understand or learn for certain classes of dwarrow, occasionally impossible. There was also the odd dwarrow who would be completely discombobulated in the light of day, loosing direction and placement based on their inability to orient themselves in the harsh glare and alien surroundings. This seemed to be an issue mostly felt by the eldest dwarrow, or those most gifted or in tune with their mountain homes.

            All these issues were dealt with accordingly in dwarrow culture, and when the large exile of Durin’s Folk from the Lonely Mountain occurred, it became imperative for the stone born to adapt. Those meant to guard and the armed forces were conditioned early on how to accept natural sunlight, often training in open fields outside their homes. Thus they were the leaders of the caravans as they made their way through Middle Earth, from the East to the West, in search of new homes and shelter. Warriors now found themselves guarding the displaced and seeing for the newly disabled as they trudged through unforgiving lands of light and beasts. Traders would become sensitized to the finer noises and weren't as hardened by years spent around forges or mines. As it was generally a family business entire lines of dwarrow clans would be immune to the ailment and inherit the business as their own through succession. This allowed for easier commerce and maintained a strong, though maligned, merchant class in the culture. It was not looked upon favorably to be so open with the outside world, rather hatefully discouraged by most of the dwarrow nation as anything foreign was viewed as tainting the purity of their race. With the loss of their home, however, this class quickly excelled, being the only ones sensible to the lands of Men and the only dwarrow capable of procuring a decent living. They also stood as translators for those seeking work and shelter. As such, there was a rash of enterprising dwarrow who would abuse their new found power and began sweat mills in forges of Men as they pocketed a goodly amount of their fellow’s earnings for themselves, passing on what little they deemed necessary to the actual blacksmiths. From an underrated class they were some of the only dwarrow to prosper during the enforced exile. Though there were still many families that upheld their decency, those who did found themselves in as dire a situation as the majority of their fellows.

            But even being betrayed and taken advantage of by their own kind and/or Men was seen as favorable to the misfortune that befell the segment of dwarrow who found themselves cast adrift. They couldn’t be fixed and they couldn’t adjust. The suggestion of actually carrying maps or actual compasses on their person was stubbornly denied, as they had no small amount of pride. In their mountains, a dwarrow could pick East from West, North from South, like they were looking at the heavens at sea. They were so tuned to their home their bodies behaved as a dial on a compass, always pointing in the direction they needed. Outside their home they would wander off into the wilderness and were never heard from again if they were old and uncared for. Those with larger families would watch their elderly and guide them as need be, and those few youths that had been bred with a deeper stone sense than the rest would normally be hardy enough to find their way once more. That didn’t stop the few casualties from being any less mourned, though they were greatly reduced when the wandering people were able to ensconce themselves, once more, in a mountain of their own.

            And then, of course, there were those that had all three; youth, family, and a new home who were just surly and useless even surrounded by the rock that comprised the Blue Mountain colony. One such being the King of said colony that absolutely refused to carry aid, accept aid, or admit to needing it. Though he was willing to admit the bloody hooded menace he’d let Dwalin convince him to chase down a ruddy destabilized mineshaft was wearing on his last nerve.

            “Tell me again, oh mighty leader, where are we now then? Hmm? Was it a left at the last bend or should we have maybe listened to the fluffy bastard and not gone down this way at all!?” The mocking tone was made all the harsher for the singsong current that delivered the question. Both dwarrow flinched as they counted to twenty, sadly rethinking just how much they _actually_ needed the wee thief in the dark caverns. The only thing keeping her from meeting an unusually harsh ending were her sex (seeing as dwarrowdams were _very_ hard to come by and seeing as she was equipped with the essentials needed to produce more dwarrow she was possibly more important to the depleted people than all the gold in Erebor), her youth (not even old enough to shave for Mahal’s sake!), and her skills with those blades she kept on her person (who the hell knew what was crawling through these unused tunnels). No they couldn’t kill her, but they were having a hard time ignoring her at this point too.

            “I did say it looked to be less likely a way out than a way further down into the Mountain…” And now his honorable guard and oldest friend was turning on him. Just great.

            Thorin grumbled under his breathe as he stomped even further into the darkness, determined at this point to prove the pair following him wrong or get them all killed. Either way sounded spectacular to him. Unfortunately it seemed the latter was Mahal’s wish as his stomping inadvertently caused the walkway under his boots to fall away and the three found themselves, once more, careening through the darkness, falling down into inky despair. The landing, this time, was far softer, and for that he was partially pleased, until the bleating beast opened her plump pink mouth once more, “Oh that was truly a brilliant display of the pomp of procession. You’re magnanimous glory must be thrumming with self-importance. And now _none_ of us can see, as I’m sure the purity of this darkness even escapes _your_ cursed eyesight.”

            It helped nothing in him that she was right but breathing was consuming him as he tried to rein in his temper. With a swift kick he turned Dwalin’s chuckling into a grunt and _that _did wonders for his own disposition as he barked at the nuisance, “Well how would _you_ suggest we escape this –”__

            **_“AHHHHHRRAAAAWWWWWRRRRRRRR!!!!”_**

“By the Mother, what the hell did we land on?!”

            “Now’s not the bleedin’ time fur questions lass!” Dwalin snatched up his King and the wee thief as the soft ground beneath them began to shift and tremble. The three ran blindly for a moment until the ground gave a great bucking shiver and they were suddenly airborne, grasping each other to maintain some semblance of bearings as they were thrown roughly into a damp wall of unforgiving stone. The soft cry from the lass was covered by another roar as the guard once more grasped the little thing and took off. She was thrown over his shoulder as he half dragged his King through the murky dark, his own eyes not making out anything more than shadows but seeing enough to differentiate a darker slot that he recognized as a cavern. Throwing the pair in ahead of him Dwalin turned just in time to see something the size of, at least, a mountain peak shift in the dark, and a pair of deep black eyes glisten through the cavern, searching for them.

            Thorin found himself with a lap full of thief and a mouth full of strawberry scented curly silk. Spitting the mane out he pushed the pain in the arse off him and heard the shifting as she righted her cloak. In the dark there was little he could do to see her and, honestly, it didn’t matter what the girl looked like, as they were unlikely to survive whatever was outside their little haven. “Could you make anything out?”

            “Nah, just that it’s bleedin’ big and has eyes tha size o’ ponies.” Dwalin grunted as he made his way over to the lass. “Wha’ hurts lass?” he’d been chasing the wee thing for the better part of a year now, he might not know what she looked like beyond a general impression of plump and shapely, but he knew what that hitched breathing meant and it wasn’t good. She was surprisingly soft for such a strong pain in the arse. He had to admire that dedication in the face of physical adversity.

            He could practically see the defaced smirk flash across the bare face as she panted, “Back. Thrown against something sharp. Not bleedin’ though so no worries Master Guardsman. Though it’s a testament to your strong character your caring for the comfort of the object of your pursuit.”

            “'Ave ta have a care fur the health o’ me prisner’s. We’re no’ barbarian’s afterall.” Dwalin grumbled as he reached out and felt under the wee thing’s cloak, holster and tunic to assure himself nothing had broken during the dash. She seemed fine, though the skin was radiating heat indicating a lovely bit o’ swellin’ and bruisin’ takin' place.

            “Prisoner?! Ha! I highly doubt it Master Guard. You’ve not got me in irons yet. And you’re unlikely to have the satisfaction any time soon.” The cheeky grin didn’t need to be seen to be felt and understood.

            “There doesn’t seem to be a possibility of any satisfactory ending to this misventure, save perhaps the satisfaction that _things_ belly will have with us in it.” Rubbing his face in exasperation Thorin turned towards the direction of his compatriots in death, “What exactly did she do that had us chasing her through the mineral systems this time Dwalin? I’d like to know before I end up in some ancient devil’s maw exactly what I’m being gnawed upon for.”

            With a heavy sigh the Guard dropped to the right of the tiny thief and replied in a surly fashion, “She took off with a custom order dagger set from tha’ ol’timer, Malkôv.” He had the sense to mumble the name of the merchant she’d pinched the dagger set from at the end.

            Didn’t mean Thorin didn’t hear it “Malkôv? That orc rutting cleaver who’s been running the market prices up by paying his workers drivel and selling their wares at three times the cost? _That_ Malkôv?” Thorin’s voice was low and gravel filled as he thrashed his teeth together at the idea of dying because one of the worst creatures to every be hewn from the stone of their ancestors had fallen victim to, in all fairness, the more honest of the two thieves.

            “Hmm, it was a lovely set. I sold it off for twice his asking price,” the cheeky thing announced, making no attempt to hide her satisfaction over the misdeed. She even accepted the slight cuff from the Guard with an astonishing amount of grace as she returned the sentiment with a soft punch to the ribs.

            “And what did you do with the purse? Spend it on jewelry and dressing gowns? That scented soap for your hair? You smell like an elf with that perfumed nonsense,” Thorin growled into the dark, glaring at the direction she was seated.

            It wasn’t logical that the air should feel frosty when he couldn’t actually _see_ thus he couldn’t perceive her displeasure. But it was a might chilly as she announced, quite sharply, “I paid that poor family what they should have earned for the commission and then rationed the rest to the other disenfranchised workers Malkôv’s been abusing. I don’t need to steal to make a good living Master Oakenshield, as Dwalin has informed me time and time again, there’s honest work to be had all about. I steal to right the wrongs done to those who can’t help themselves. And because it’s a rather entertaining pastime. I meet the most _interesting_ people in my line of work. Other thieves, guards, merchants, _Kings_.” The smirk was back as was the playfulness that seemed to be her calling card. But the message had been received in its desired tone. As a King, he should have taken this matter into his own hands. It shouldn’t be left to the likes of her to see that those families, his people, weren’t being taken advantage of. He’d spent such a long time trying to make sure Men and Elves didn’t harm his people, that Orcs and Goblins stayed away from their new home, he hadn’t been looking inward with the proper care.

            Sighing the weary King Without a Mountain sank to the girl’s left and closed his eyes. Only to open them and stare into the darkness he knew was her face when the tiny, gloved hand grasped his own in understanding and support, “You’re a good King Thorin Oakenshield. The best I’ve met yet. You’ll go far, assuming you can find your way that is. Really, your sense of direction is abysmal.” The three actually found something to share a laugh with in their last moments together. Though it was cut short by a rather thundering boom and a scattering of rubble from above.

             “It’s found us!” Dwalin shouted as he thrust himself in front of the pair, staring intently at the front of their alcove.

            “No, that’s coming from above!” Thorin growled as he watched more debris fall from the ceiling.

            “Well it’s about time,” the lass’s sigh was nothing short of boggling as, with a final resounding crack, the ceiling in front of their tiny cove broke and tumbled down, followed swiftly by the booted feet of a rappelling dwarrow in a shabby hat and twin braids at either side of his head. With an entirely too merry “‘Ello!” the lad released from the rope and soon found himself with an armful of relieved youngling, “Now then, wat kinda mess ‘ave ya gotten yerself into now lass? Yer mum was near frantic when she found me and the lads at work. Ya know she worries somethin’ dreadful when ya take off on yer own like tha’” Bofur’s cheery smile was all encompassing as he stared down at the brilliant smile on his little friend’s face and then surveyed the company she’d found herself in. He wasn’t surprised to find the younger son of Fundin there, he’d been chasin’ the wee thing since the first time Bofur’d met her. But seein’ the King was somethin’ entirely different, “Well, now, you’ve certain got some fine friends with you this eve’ lass.”

            “How’d you know we’d be here? I hadn’t any intentions of falling this far into the Mountain, or getting this lost in them,” the question was as droll as it was curious as she continued to soak up some much deserved comfort from the dwarf who she secretly called her Uncle Bofur. Not that her mother would find anything wrong with that as Belladonna ‘Nightshade’ Baggins was quite taken with the mining family.

            “Well, it’s been a common rumor tha’ a troop of workers had stumbled upon wha’ seemed to be a nestin’ ground for a Grootslang in one o’ the deeper diamond caverns. It was bein’ shut down earlier this week an’ closed off. Naturally, I assumed it’d be the only place ta find our wee bit o’ Trouble. An’ I was right. Now lets get the lot o’ you outta here befur the thing decides ta make a meal of us. Aye?” With that Bofur lifted the little lass up and above his head where she grasped the rope and started her own ascent, she was followed swiftly by Thorin, Dwalin and finally Bofur himself.

            It was a long climb to the access point but Bifur was waiting to snatch up the tiny thief and had abandoned the King and guard to their own devices as he checked her over before grunting to her and signing a bit. With a cheeky smile she nodded, saluted the two royals and was running off down the caverns. Dwalin made to follow only to be pulled up short by the scowling ex-warrior. It was on the tip of his tongue to point out the pair were obstructing the King’s justice when Thorin’s heavy hand landed on his shoulder as he announced, “Leave her. It’s been a trying day and I don’t think I could stand having that creature so close as the dungeons. Next time you need help catching a thief you can damn well call Dís, I’m quite through with this nonsense,” with that he made to get the hell out of the labyrinth that was his colony only to be pulled up short by the other miner, “Beggin’ yer pardon, majesty. But tha’s no' the way out.” Bofur’s smile was sympathetic as he pointed down the hall to the left of the one the girl had taken. “That one’ll getcha to the Central Hall and then from there you’ll be a quick trip to the Royal Wings.”

            Muttering a tired thanks he and the guard stomped off. Watching the lads take their leave Bofur wasn’t surprised to hear a soft voice announce from his left shoulder, “He’s always trying to point East you know? I didn’t realize until we were sitting down in that cavern, but the entire time we were following him down there, he always chose the turns that pointed towards your Erebor.” He wasn’t surprised to hear her observation but by the amount of sadness that coated the statement. With a sigh he draped his arm over the cloaked shoulders and agreed with her. Their King was certainly a strong one, even his weaknesses were geared towards the betterment of his people, it seemed. “Let’s get you back to yur mama, little ‘un. She’s bout worried herself bald. Not a hair on her chin. You’re truly a cruel little cuss.” And the three walked off to the little toyshop and celebrated the safe return of the wee one to her rightful place in her mother’s arms.

            It would only take Thorin a day to realize they hadn’t actually thanked their saviors and it would be three before they found the Ur family to officially congratulate them for saving their King, and thus their people (Fíli was _far_ from being ready to rule the displaced peoples). But by the next morning Dwalin had placed Malkôv under arrest for crimes against dwarrow kind and a rather enterprising distant cousin to the Thrown ws appointed (an anonymous suggestion that was well heeded) was appointed the charge of the newly opened merchant position. Master Dori was pleased to take over the smithy as it freed up a significant amount of his time to tend his youngest brother’s needs. 


End file.
